Seated in her favorite arbor one lovely spring day, with thoughts thus
employed, and eyes gazing dreamily upon the beautiful landscape spread out
at her feet, she was startled from her reverie by some one suddenly
stepping in and boldly taking a seat by her side.
She turned her head. Could it be possible? Yes, it was indeed Tom Jackson,
handsomely dressed and looking, to a casual observer, the gentleman she
had once believed him to be. She recognized him instantly.
A burning blush suffused her face, dyeing even the fair neck and arms. She
spoke not a word, but rose up hastily with the intent to fly from his
hateful presence.
"Now don't, my darling, don't run away from me," he said, intercepting
her. "I'm sure you couldn't have the heart, if you knew how I have lived
for years upon the hope of such a meeting: for my love for you, dearest
Elsie, has never lessened, the ardor of my passion has never cooled----"
"Enough, sir," she said, drawing herself up, her eyes kindling and
flashing as he had never thought they could; "how dare you insult me by
such words, and by your presence here? Let me pass."
"Insult you, Miss Dinsmore?" he cried, in affected surprise. "You were not
wont, in past days, to consider my presence an insult, and I could never
have believed fickleness a part of your nature.
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